Cuddle Up, It's Cold Outside A Johnlock Fanfic
by i-love-you-you-machine
Summary: a post-Reichenbach fic dealing with the ever existing tension-and how far it can stretch-between a possibly drug addicted Sherlock and a married John.
1. Chapter 1

John Watson unbuttoned his coat as he took the stairs at 221B Baker Street. A light snow had been falling all day, but he didn't mind. He liked the whip of cold air in his face and the smells of winter. He dusted the white powder from his sleeves, pulled off his knitted cap and knocked only once at the door to his old flat. Sherlock didn't answer so he walked in uninvited. He figured it didn't matter too much. There wasn't a great deal he could walk in on that would surprise him regarding his dearest mate.

The flat was a mess, per usual. When John had lived here he tried his best to keep the place tidy a bit, and Mrs. Hudson did her best as well, but Sherlock was a force to be reckoned with. His rubbish knew no bounds! His "experiments" had no proper place. Cleaning at 221 B was an exercise in futility. John immediately noticed that the drapes were drawn against the dim evening glare of the white dusting outside. The wooden table, huge as it was contained papers strewn everywhere with four separate cups of half-consumed tea sitting precariously about. Sherlock lay on the sofa in his bathrobe, curled up, face to the wall. His shiny black curls hadn't been groomed in quite a while. John called softly to his friend.

"Sherlock?" No answer, no stirring. "Sherlock, are you awake?" a little louder this time. Sherlock shifted his shoulder a bit, but nothing else.

John stepped closer to the sofa, meaning to bend down and touch Sherlock's hair, brush it back and around his ear as he was fond of doing while his friend slept. But, he stepped on something that made a cracking sound and he stopped in his tracks. 'Shit, what have I broken now?' John thought , as he stepped back, revealing what was under his shoe. A needle. A hypodermic needle that Sherlock had picked up from God knew where. It was empty and discarded on the floor.

Anger rising in his chest, John fairly shouted "Sherlock, what the hell is going on here?" The sheer volume of John's voice did its job in raising the body on the sofa out of it's slumber, or stupor, or... . Sherlock's thin bony fingers touched at the tips as he slowly positioned himself on his back. Then, his hands came together in the familiar gesture of prayer. He rested the hands on his chest and opened his eyes reticently. Seeing John's face in front of him, he moved one hand laconically up to his eyes and swept it across and down in an attempt to clear his vision.

"It would seem I've been dozing for quite a while. It's snowing out," Sherlock remarked in a matter of fact tone.

"Dozing for a bit?" John retorted hotly. "Really , Sherlock, you think I'm buying that? Me , a man of medicine and your closest friend? I know what you've been up to. I can deduce all I need to from the state of this flat and of you!" Then, he emphatically threw his knit cap at Sherlock and hit him square in the face, little flecks of snow puffing up into his tangled curls above his eyebrows. It was childish, he knew, but since he didn't have the heart to actually strike Sherlock, it was the next best thing.

Sherlock let out a long 'this is the most boring day of my existence' sigh and swung his gangly legs around and set his bare feet firmly on the floor. He took John's cap in his hand and tossed it beside him on the sofa cushion and then ran his hands through the back of his curls, his fingers getting caught up in the tangles. He gave up and shook his head to rid it of the remaining snow flecks. Sherlock's hands then went to the back of his neck as he turned his head toward John, blinking expectantly, waiting to be lectured on the dangers of drug use by Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. But, John said nothing. He simply stood there behind the armchair strumming his fingers and shifting from one foot to the other, in what could have been nervous concern or blinding disgust. Sherlock found it difficult to pinpoint exactly what John was thinking and feeling these days. So, he waited.  
Blink.  
Blink.  
Raised eyebrow. He used that as his ever unspoken "What, John?"

John stubbornly refused to meet Sherlock's eyes. He stood there half holding his breath wishing that he'd tried to phone instead of barging in on this mess that was someone he cared about. He moved in his slow, almost mechanical way around the side of the chair, paused for a moment and sat down. With his legs crossed and his chin in his hand he fixed his eyes firmly on the cushion beside Sherlock's hip. He drew in a deep breath and said, "Sherlock, we've talked about this one too many times in the last few months. It's getting tiresome and it's wearing me down. I worry about you. Most of the time I worry a lot. I can't make you do anything you aren't willing to do, obviously, but...do you think you could make an effort for me? Take care of yourself, Sherlock, for me?" John's words were said slowly and with great emphasis. Even though he was angry and that usually made him speak quickly, it was more than anger this time. It was pain; great pain over so many unsaid things. The pain was what made him have to choose his words carefully. He always had to be so careful around Sherlock which in itself was a huge strain.

Sherlock waited, and coming to the conclusion that John was through speaking, leaned back against the sofa, thinking. He picked up John's cap and absent-mindedly twirled it on the end of his skinny index finger. He watched the knitted patter twirl around and around until his eyes couldn't focus any longer on the object. He stopped and brought the cap to his face, letting the turned up rim which had rested around John's ears and hairline touch his nose and lips. He inhaled deeply, smelling wool and morning toast and John's shampoo. He had a satisfied smile on his face as he turned once more in John's direction, thinking his friend would have his eyes on him by now, but he did not. John was still staring in the direction of the floor, looking more than a little pained. Sherlock's smile dried up faster than lightning. The satisfied feeling of cozy warmth that had filled him just moments before evaporated and he felt suddenly anxious and angry.

Sherlock literally bounded off the sofa, with more strength than John would have thought possible in someone so lifeless and seemingly uninterested as he had been only minutes before. John watched him move like a swift cat to the window, his bathrobe trailing out behind him. John noticed Sherlock had on nothing but the bathrobe and cleared his throat more loudly than he meant to. Sherlock's eyes darted to John quickly with a puzzled expression until he realized...and pulled the bathrobe around his waist, cinching it with the tie and peeking out of the window.

When Sherlock spoke, he made an attempt to sound as aloof as he possibly could. "John, it will be dark in no more than forty-five minutes. I see you've walked here from your flat. If you want to get home before the dark sets in, you'd better start now."

John coughed and replied, "Yes, well I-"

"I'm going to get a shower now," Sherlock interjected. "You can, I suppose, see yourself out?" And with that he hurried across the room, down the short hallway to the bathroom and shut the door with a loud 'BANG!'

John stood, grabbed up his coat and hurried out the door and down the stairs that lead to his old home. As he hit the outside air, he noted that it was getting colder. The twilight air cut his eyes with an icy sharpness. When he finally realized he'd left the knitted wool cap his wife had made him at 221B Baker Street, he had tears in his eyes. Whether from the cold or from the encounter, he would never admit.

John walked swiftly half of the way home, but rather suddenly snow began to fall again so he hailed a cab and jumped inside, relishing the warmness. When the cab arrived at his flat he was so deep in thought regarding the state of Sherlock that he didn't even realize the driver had stopped.

"Here we are, Sir!" the cabbie called behind him, breaking John's thoughts and momentarily the ache in his chest. He hopped out and hurried inside calling "I'm home, dear...are you around?" He found his wife on her mobile talking quickly and professionally. She gave him a perfunctory wave of the hand and half-smile which he knew meant she would talk to him in a minute. He waited patiently for her to hang up, only to hear that she had to go into work for a few hours.

"Suspected suicide...it will probably be quick work, but I'll have to go in tonight. I'm sorry, John."

"It's alright, Molly. I understand," he replied. "They only want the best ME's on duty for night-time suicides," he quipped with a playful smile. They both laughed and John bent forward to kiss her hello and farewell all at once. Suddenly, Molly's face went dark.  
"You've been visiting Sherlock, haven't you?" she asked. "I can smell that flat-formaldehyde-on your coat."

"Yes," was John's simple reply. He never liked to talk about Sherlock with his wife nor did she like to talk about Sherlock with him. He was the unspoken sore point of their relatively happy marriage. John always imagined that with enough conversation between the two of them regarding Sherlock, the sore would turn into a festering wound. Exactly how John was able to still have strong feelings of intimacy and attraction towards Molly after knowing all she'd done to aid Sherlock in faking his death, he could not understand. Yet, she had been there for him at a time when no one else was and she understood him like no one else ever would. It went both ways, really...their mutual understanding. Both John and Molly had a safe haven in each other: a place of comfort, support and even love. Also, John suspected they both loved the same man-Sherlock Holmes-with a passion that was overwhelming, almost other-worldly.

John watched Molly through the doorway as she gingerly took the snow-slicked steps outside of their flat. She slid into her small, economical car and started down the road to St. Barts. As she drove past their doorway she turned to him and simultaneously scrunched her nose and gave him a smile through the window glass, and then she was gone.

_Ah, Molly_, John thought to himself. _My Molly...so precious and caring and so unassumingly sexy_. He thought of the way she relaxed when she was around him, like she did around no other...certainly not around Sherlock. With John she laughed easily, she smiled indulgently yet never in a fake way and she moved with a grace that was not natural to her. It was obvious that she felt comfortable around him, and that made John happy. It had always made him happy, ever since he could remember, to know that he was pleasing someone else.

He had felt that satisfactory feeling no more so than on the day he had wed Molly Hooper. He knew that day was something she'd dreamed of for a long while. She knew that John would make her happy: that he would never say hurtful things to her on purpose, he would always consider her feelings and he would always take care of her to the best of his abilities. She had been right. But, for John that wedding day had been half contentment in the thought of merging his life with someone else's and half anguished pain and resentment. The pain and resentment was all due to Sherlock, of course. Sherlock, standing up with him at the front of the church as if he were happy for the day's ceremonies. Sherlock, in his crisp white shirt and striking black suit. Sherlock, with his eyes never leaving John's face...searching. John, flush-faced and refusing to even risk a glance at his friend's face. Even now as he thought of the tumbling curls, the aquiline nose, the pink lips nervously twitching into an awkward half smile his chest tightened. A lump rose in his throat and a warm stirring started deep in his belly.  
John cleared his throat. He took in a deep breath. He let it out slowly and as quietly as possible, even though no one was around to take notice of him.

John made his way to the bathroom where he quickly undressed and even though the temperature outside continued to drop, he turned the shower over to cold, stepped inside and lunged into the cleansing water. He made sure he kept his hands outstretched in front of him, glued to the shower wall, holding his trembling body as upright as possible.

*******************************  
When John finally got out of the shower, he dressed again in clean, dry clothes. He didn't know why exactly, it was just a feeling he had. He felt it was too early to slip into his pajamas and wait around for Molly, yet once dressed all he did was wander around the sitting room. Dressed with nowhere to go. His thoughts began to wander. He thought of Sherlock, as always, for a few fleeting seconds before his eyes rested on his mobile. It was laying on the coffee table. He'd forgotten it when he'd left his flat earlier. It was front-side down and he could clearly see the inscription that would forever proclaim that the phone had once belonged to his sister, Harry. He hadn't talked to Harry in a long time. She hadn't even shown up to his wedding, but he hadn't expected her to. She would have no reason to share in any happiness regarding his personal life. He had always kept that part of himself closed off from her, as he'd done from most everyone else. Also, he had kept Harry at arms length since her split with Clara. He had just begun to become used to his sister's relationship with another woman, used to Clara and her bright smile and charming wit. He had come to realize that Clara was the glue that kept his sister from falling off the wagon more often than she did. But, he had wrestled with the feelings of love and acceptance a bit too long and now Clara was gone. Harry was God knew how drunk by now-_God, it's 9 pm already_, he thought, _she's probably properly pissed_. He found himself brooding and sat down hard on the sofa.

_Relationships are so difficult and easily broken no matter who's involved_, he thought. Again his mind returned to the flat in Baker Street. He thought of how thin and pale Sherlock looked today; how he'd lain on the sofa like a ragdoll. He figured that his friend had to be in a very desperate place in order to fall back into the habit of illegal drug use. Also, he wondered what it was Sherlock had injected this time. Cocaine? He didn't think so. He'd known that Sherlock had used it in the past, before John had come into his life. It was something Sherlock had said he used in order to allow his body to keep pace with his brain. There was a definite "coming down" with the use of this drug, but not the kind of utter numbness he had witnessed in his friend today. _No_, he thought, _more likely some kind of homeless network heroin or other opiate concoction that allowed Sherlock to sleep through his emotions_...the ones John knew were too awkward and probably foreign for him to express. "Not that I'm much more together regarding all that," he spoke aloud to the empty room.

John glanced at the clock on the wall above the fireplace. It read ten minutes after nine. John rubbed his thumb across the engraving on the back of his phone.  
Eleven minutes after nine.  
Twelve minutes after nine.  
Thirteen minutes after nine.

The phone in his hand began to sound. It was a downloaded ringtone. The humming of violin strings. John stared at the phone in his hand for seconds that seemed to stretch out forever, his hand trembling over the "accept" button. He fought the impulse to answer with his usual "Hello, Sherlock? You okay?" With a pressing weight on his chest he quickly declined the phone call. He thought about how Sherlock was undoubtedly rolling his eyes towards heaven at being ignored. 'Well, he's made me worry about him enough lately...now he can wonder (and maybe worry) about me instead,' John thought. The inside of the flat had suddenly become inexplicably hot and opressing. John felt stifled and a bit ill. He decided he needed cold, invigorating night air in his lungs. He pulled his coat on over a button up shirt and knit jumper. He searched for his knit cap he'd had on earlier but couldn't find it, so he plundered around until he found an older one and put it on instead. It wasn't as warm as the one from Molly, but it would do. He stepped out into the night, locking the door behind him. He knew Molly wouldn't be home for at least another two to three hours, so he didn't even bother to leave her a note.

John stood at the curb outside his flat taking the fresh air into his lungs in gulps as if he were a drowning man. The air was frigid and went straight through to the bone. Being overseas in Afghanistan had caused him to be acclimated to extremes in weather and he was able to control the urge to shake and shiver. He started walking without a clear idea of where he was headed, but he was steadily thinking of Sherlock and the phone call from him which he'd just refused. Lost in thoughts of words that could have passed between the two of them had he been clear-minded and courageous enough to answer, John wandered for over half an hour up and down the streets of London. Eventually, he came upon a sidewalk bench and sat down. He noticed with a grimace that the bench was situated across the street from the restaraunt where he and Sherlock had shared their first real conversation together. John remembered every detail of that night, and recalled it often. He remembered with a slight embarrassment the way that Sherlock had thought he'd been hitting on him. At the time he had felt more awkward than perhaps even Sherlock. Tonight he thought of what might have been if he'd reacted differently. God, to have that kind of strength! John was completely lost in a feeling of angsty nostalgia when he imagined he heard hurried footsteps. He chalked it up to his brain playing tricks on him. He laughed to himself and thought, _maybe it's the ghosts of me and Sherlock, running the back alleys as we did that night._ His heart did a funny flip-flop as he thought of how exhilarating that had been. A moment later, John was startled so much that he literally jumped to his feet. Sherlock's voice spoke to him out of the fog.

"John, yes, good. I knew you'd be right here."

"Sherlock? Where did you come from and how in the hell did you know I'd be here? I didn't even know that myself!" John's heart was beating high up in his throat, radiating down through his ribcage with a power that felt like thunder. He wondered stupidly if Sherlock could hear it.

"John, can you not figure out my methods easily by now?" Sherlock inquired with a tired sigh. He was standing just behind the bench in his dark coat which allowed him to blend into the darkness all around. Only a glint in his eyes and the shine of his silky curls could be clearly made out. Sherlock talked as he walked around to where John stood.

"I called your mobile once and you didn't answer. I assumed you were ignoring me because I knew you'd be home by that time and that your phone would be close by. I rang twice more, thinking you'd eventually pick up because...well, because you're you, my friend. You're too kind-hearted and too much of a worry-wart to decline three phonecalls from your best mate. So, I naturally concluded that you'd gone out and forgotten to carry your mobile with you." He was right of course, John realized. The explanation was so simple, too.

"Okay, I can understand all that but how did you know I'd come here, to this particular bench?" John asked, bewildered.

"Not everything can be logical, John. I found myself thinking of this place after your visit earlier and hoped you somehow were as well." This was all Sherlock offered as he sat down slowly in the middle of the bench, pulling his scarf tighter around his slender neck. John could feel his face flush with embarrassed confusion. It made him feel ridiculously transparent, despite the darkness that hid him. What was Sherlock playing at?-that last remark was so unlike him.

"Why were you try reach me on the phone?" John queried.

Sherlock laughed a deep, throaty laugh that seemed to shake the bench. In an amused voice he answered, "Well, to tell the truth, I've always been lost without my blogger." He laughed again, although it had a sad, hollow quality this time.

"Sherlock, what's gotten into you?" John asked with more anger in his voice than he actually felt.

"You tell me, you're the doctor," Sherlock replied as he shifted his weight. He was staring straight at John now. John stared back. It was the first time he'd met his friend's gaze, purposefully, in weeks. The streetlight sent shadows cascading down Sherlock's angular face. John took in Sherlock's skin. It had always been unusually pale, but tonight he looked white as a sheet-ill. Sherlock's eyes were shining at him. John observed the pinpoint pupils and the bloodshot whites. _Wild,_ he thought, _wild and desperate_.

"Sherlock, you're high...again," he spat out the words like so much poison in his throat.

"Mmmmmmm," Sherlock mumbled as he closed his eyes and let his head fall backward as far as it would go.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You really are stoned, aren't you?" John said the words aloud, although he expected no reply. He got none. "How's your breathing," John wondered aloud. He slid down the bench, closer to Sherlock. In the darkness he couldn't see the rise and fall of his friend's chest. Without thinking twice, he took his hand from his coat pocket and reached across his own body. He fumbled with the top two buttons of Sherlock's coat and got them to open. Then, he slipped his hand inside the heavy coat and rested it on Sherlock's thin, hard body, just where his ribs began. John counted the breaths.  
In, out. One.  
In, out. Two.  
In, out. Three.

Suddenly, Sherlock interrupted with, "Are you so very cold, John? You're shaking awfully hard."

"I-hmm-no, I'm fine. Your respirations are slow, heartrate is down as well. You shouldn't be out in this ridiculous weather. But, neither should you go home and sleep. Fancy a coffee or something? There has to be somewhere around here still open." John waited.

"Come back to the flat-our flat, John. We can make coffee there and warm up. You could get your cap back, too. The one from your wife," was the quick reply.

John stood up, stiff and straight. He turned on his heel toward the direction that would take them to Baker Street. "Come on then, you lunatic," he said, shaking harder than ever. "I'll need that cap and you'll more than likely need a doctor before the night's out."

The familiar flat at Baker Street was within sight. Somewhere between the last two blocks, Sherlock had begun to fall behind. He walked slowly and without purpose, seemingly lost in thought. _His mind palace_. John had to take him by the sleeve of the coat and literally pull him along. At last, thoroughly frozen, he passed the door to the flat beside 221B. _Mrs. Turner and she's got married ones._ This thought flitted into John's head. He stopped abruptly, letting out a small laugh-like a bark. He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers. With Sherlock at his side, he opened the door to 221B and went in. He was as quiet as possible, conscious that it was probably close to eleven already. _Wouldn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson_.

Inside it was warm, even without a fire in the grate. John walked over and put a few logs on and poked them around until they began to burn yellow and deep orange. Sherlock had wandered into the kitchen. He was standing with his backside up against the counter top and his head resting on the faces of the cupboards. Still thinking.  
"Sherlock, what are you doing in there? Come sit by the fire."

"Tea, John," he answered back, eyes still glassy and faraway, "I'm putting on the kettle."

"Then get on with it," John said, getting his tone of voice worked up for what he needed to say next.  
The fire was burning quickly now.  
Snap!  
Crackle!  
Snap!  
Each sound the wood made was like a small conversation highlighted by the lack of communication between the two men.

"Sherlock, where are the drugs? You may as well tell me now or I'm going to rifle through your sock drawer. I'll have the index out of order quick as you please," John threatened.

Sherlock looked back at John with one of his half-smiles playing with the corner of his lips. "I don't have some secret drug stash, John," he stated, matter-of-factly. "I've taken all that I had. That's the reason I went looking for you tonight."

John's brow creased in confusion. He cocked his head to the side, drew a deep breath and said, "Sherlock, I don't understand. What does your drug use have to do with me?"

Sherlock fiddled with the tea spoons beside him on the counter and looked at the floor. When he spoke it was in a hushed voice that sounded pregnant with emotion. "I took all those things to get rid of...information...to block it all out."

"Information, Sherlock?"

"Information concerning you, John. Even you've noted before that once I get fixated on an object I won't stop until I find out everything there is to know. Like an obsession. Usually it's to do with solving cases and facts like 243 types of tobacco ash. But, for a while now it's only been about you."

"M-Me? Sherlock, why?" John asked. He still had on his coat and he felt so very hot. _I could be standing in the fire and I wouldn't even notice_, he thought.

"You married Molly. I needed to forget that. I needed to not feel that. I needed to forget all the time that preceded my "death by suicide," because to remember it as fondly as I do and then to know that you're not here anymore...," he trailed off as he pressed the heels of his hands into both eye sockets.

"And, so, you went looking for me tonight because you wanted to tell me...this?" John asked.

"Yes. I've never been good at...emotions. I thought the drugs might...God, nevermind. This is madness." Sherlock pushed himself away from the support of the countertop and walked toward the fireplace where John stood, incapable of movement. He stopped a few feet away and crossed his arms over his chest. They stood that way for a long while, neither moving nor speaking. Both thinking.

"I'll go get the cap you left, John," Sherlock mumbled and walked into his bedroom.

John stood, baffled. He was vaguely aware that he hadn't moved since he'd first asked Sherlock about the drugs. He couldn't get all of what Sherlock had just said to fit into his brain. He certainly couldn't get all the feelings to fit into his heart. God, it hurt so much! Sherlock's face and the way he'd given up explaining himself left John wishing he'd said something. _Anything, you shit, would have been better than standing like an uncomprehending block of firewood_! There were so many times he'd, secretely, wanted to let Sherlock know how much he cared, but he never had. Not really. He'd always been too shy, too unsure. Now, of all things, Sherlock had beat him to it! Sherlock had expressed emotion...strong emotion...like John was always wishing he would. And, he'd just stood staring as if he didn't understand. Now, the moment had passed, surely. Sherlock had broken it by going to fetch his stupid hat out of the bedroom. _The bedroom_? _Why does he have my hat in his bedroom_? He made up his mind to ask these questions out loud as soon as Sherlock came back into the sitting room. John waited.  
Crackle!  
Crackle!  
POP!  
The fire was raging. Sherlock wasn't coming back out.

John waited as long as he could. When the first unsettling thread of worry started creeping into his brain, he managed to move his feet. He walked the length of the sitting room and stuck his head around the doorframe leading into Sherlock's room. The door had been left wide open. Sherlock sat on the foot of his bed. He was doubled over at the waist, knees apart, hands dangling between his legs.

"Sherlock? You okay?" John asked as he started forward. He walked closer to the bedside and could see that Sherlock held his knit cap in one hand. His other hand was tightly closed into a fist. As John watched, Sherlock brought the hand with the cap in it up to his face. He stared at it, smiled and brought the thing to his face. He took in a deep breath but before he got halfway through it, his chest hitched and he let out a sound. John wasn't sure what it was meant to be. It was somewhere between a sob and a laugh. John's heart contracted painfully in his chest, then started racing. He could hear it beating out an unsteady rhythm in his throat, his ears, his temples. He felt mad with worry. It was so unlike his friend to behave in this way-so...undone. The sight of Sherlock's gaunt, defeated profile made him desperate to do something, anything to make it better. John reached out his hand, as he'd done so often while Sherlock was asleep, and touched one shining, unruly curl beside his left ear. Ever so softly he wrapped it around his finger and brought it down and around, tucking it safely behind the curve of Sherlock's earlobe.


	2. Chapter 2

_Why am I doing this_? _What the hell made me so very brave all of a sudden_? From the moment that John placed his fingers on Sherlock's skin he had an overwhelming panic inside of him. Voices were talking all at once in discord inside his head. He felt the need to break contact with the pale, smooth surface that was the beginning of Sherlock's neck, as soon as possible. Before he could though, Sherlock's cool, long-fingered hand had imprisoned his own-keeping it locked to the side of his face. Sherlock stayed frozen for almost a minute, still as stone, gripping John's hand. Then, ever-so-slowly, he relaxed his hold and with John's hand resting in his palm, he allowed the pair to fall downward. When John had his arm down beside him as far as it would reach, Sherlock moved his hand to another position in order to touch John's differently. He never let their flesh break contact, though.

John dare not move. His breath was coming out faster and harder now, in sync with the beat of his heart. Very fast, indeed. John watched with hawk eyes, every move Sherlock's fingers made. They curled over and around the first three fingers of John's hand and then he gently pulled with a downward motion. This unexpected movement caused John to lose his balance. It was just enough of a jolt to his equilibrium that he was forced to take the few steps that allowed the two of them to be face-to-face-with Sherlock still sitting on the edge of the bed, and John standing in front of him, a tiny bit taller than Sherlock because of it.

John cleared his throat, in the way he often did,and then attempted to speak, "S-Sherlock, my hand, uh, what are you doing?"

"Mmmmm?" Sherlock mumbled back in a questioning way, as if he hadn't heard.

"What are you holding onto my hand for?" John tried again.

"Oh, just taking in information, John," Sherlock answered in a far-away voice. He hadn't taken his own hand nor his eyes off John's. Sherlock was holding onto John's fingertips now, with his own. He moved the pads of his fingers up and down each of John's, individually. He smiled his lop-sided smirk and instinctively John knew why. He knew because, despite the inner voices of warning, he was smiling as well. It was because he was taking in the differences of their hands and fingers. Sherlock's hand so white and cold, with fingers that were long and slender and moved with such slow grace, taking in every detail of what they touched. _Scientist's hands_, _Philosopher's hands_. John's in comparison were almost complete opposites. His hand was tan from the walks he took outside, every morning and afternoon, on his way to and from work. His fingers were short and warm and skilled. _Capable hands_. _Doctor's hands_. Sherlock moved his thumb over the joint and tendons that conncted John's thumb to his wrist and forearm. As Sherlock's thumb went higher and higher up his forearm, fingers trailing behind on the sensitive inside between his wrist and elbow, John's gut filled with butterflies. Then, just as the voices had warned, the familiar warmth started deep inside his abdomen.

John took a sudden and stumbling step backward. He caught his balance as Sherlock's hand slipped back down his arm and stopped at his wrist. Sherlock made his fingers clamp down and envelop John's wrist with some force which in turn caused John to fall forward. _I feel like a teeter-totter_, he thought, dazedly. To catch himself, John extended his free arm out in front of himself and it came to rest on the nearest solid thing-Sherlock's shoulder. John's eyes were on the mass of curls atop Sherlock's head as they bobbed around in seeming slow motion. Then, the curls began to fall backward, away from Sherlock's face as he tilted his head back, eyes coming up to meet John's.

Sherlock's eyes never left John's as he spoke. "It's amazing how close two people can become just by touching hands. All parts of the human body have the ability to touch and to feel...but, the hands ...they have the fantastic ability to touch and to see at the same time. They can entertwine, like this," he said as he locked his fingers with John's. They blinked in unison.  
Blink.  
Blink.  
Blink.

Suddenly, Sherlock brought his other hand up, between him and John. John noticed he was still holding onto his cap.

"Here, have this hideous thing back, before Molly thinks you don't like wearing it," and with that he stuffed it into John's coat pocket. Sherlock pushed the hat as far down inside the coat as the lining of the pocket would allow. Then, he kept on pushing. John realized he was doing this in order to make him bend down closer, so he did. When their lips finally did meet, it was like nothing John had experienced before. Sherlock's lips were as cold as his hands and John marvelled at how this could possibly be. _How can one of us not be killing the other_, he thought. _Soon, Sherlock will melt or I will burst into flame._


	3. Chapter 3

Neither one of them died. _That would have been too damn easy_, John would think later. The first sweet moment of kissing was stopped by John grunting low in his throat and Sherlock pulling back. The two friends looked deep into each others eyes. There was an unspoken consent to keep going, as Sherlock raised his eyebrow and John looked shyly downward, but smiled and eventually met Sherlock's gaze again. From that moment onward, John made up his mind to throw caution to the wind. He would not listen to the voices of warning, they would just slow him down. He was going to do whatever the hell he felt like doing.

So, when the urge to touch Sherlock's shock of curls overwhelmed him, John simply reached out his hand and raked his fingers through the soft mass, letting his fingertips touch Sherlock's scalp. Then, he brought it down to the back of Sherlock's neck, playing with the fine wisps of hair that that grew at the nape. Finally, he applied pressure where his hand rested, bringing Sherlock closer for another kiss. Sherlock greeted his friend's lips with an eagerness that left John feeling quite desperate. John began to coax Sherlock's lips to open with his tongue and he did not object. _This is not his first time_, John noted. Suddenly, he was aware that no amount of this kissing would be enough to satisfy the feeling of need that was growing inside him.

With this thought swirling around his brain, John began to kiss Sherlock with more force. _This is starting to become quite...ferocious_, John thought fuzzily. _Animalistic_. He took Sherlock's tongue deeper into his scorched throat. This bit of frenzied passion proved too much for Sherlock and he finally drew back, breathless. John felt as if Sherlock had drawn all the air supply from his lungs when their lips unlocked. Once again, the two men met each other's eyes-both pair burning with untamed desire. Eventually, Sherlock stood, towering over John. He bent his head a bit so that their foreheads were touching-like magnets. John could feel Sherlock's hot, ragged breathing on his skin. Despite how hot he felt from the inside out, John shivered. He could no longer ignore the throbbing below his waist. It seemed to radiate from every pore on the surface of his skin.

Just as John was beginning to feel very self-conscious about the unmistakable bulge in his jeans, Sherlock's hands started to roam all over his aching body. They first followed the line of his jaw, caressing his earlobes and his neck. Next, Sherlock squeezed his shoulders, as if rubbing away stress. His hand then fell behind John's back, his fingertips tracing circles around and around his shoulderblades. Then, Sherlock rested his hands on John's hips and slipped his fingers into the front pockets of his jeans. Sherlock pulled John's hips toward him. As soon as he felt John's arousal he simultaneously pushed John's hips away and stepped back. His fingers played with the front of John's belt until it slipped undone. At that point, Sherlock looked at John directly and raised his eyebrow again, in question. John stared back, cleared his throat as if to say something, but then only nodded curtly.  
One Button. Undone.  
Another Button. Undone.  
Zipper Down.

_Sherlock behaves as though he wants this as much-maybe even more-than I do at this moment_. John let this thought settle inside of his brain as his jeans dropped to the floor of Sherlock's bedroom. He watched Sherlock intently. If he was honest with himself, he was waiting for Sherlock to lose interest in him-as he was want to do regarding most everything that didn't revolve around or directly involve one of his cases or experiments. Yes, John was actually expecting Sherlock to suddenly roll his eyes or sigh heavily from boredom. But, tonight his friend was in no way his usual self.  
_He's actually genuinely excited_, John deduced. _And, it's all about me and that bloody well blows_ _my mind_. John watched as Sherlock stepped away from him. Sherlock stood straight and tall as usual,but his chest rose and fell with alarming rapidity. Sherlock breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth. _He's trying to calm himself without much success_, John worried.

"Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock only hummed in answer. John took this for a 'yes.'

Sherlock was a few feet away and John flushed as he realized Sherlock's eyes were fixed on his boxer briefs. Sherlock swallowed hard as his eyes roamed from the waistband, to the strained and stretched fabric in the middle, all the way down to the grey cotton that clung to the defined muscles of John's upper thighs. Sherlock's eyes raked up and down the length of John's body as his nimble fingers undid buttons up and down, left and right. Sherlock moved with such agility and simple grace that John was barely aware of how Sherlock had become lean, pale and naked beside him. He simply was.

John's mind was in total chaos. Words bubbled up and yet wouldn't come out. He was literally speechless. _Speechless_. Apparently, Sherlock was as well or maybe it was that Sherlock figured there was really nothing to say. Sherlock dropped immediately down on his knees in front of John and wrapped his long arms around John's waist. Sherlock pressed his cheek and then his lips to John's bare abdomen, holding fast. The pressure of his friend's body against his own was painfully sweet. _Bloody hell, Bloody hell, Bloody_ _hell_ were the words in John's head, like a mantra.

"Sherlock, I don't think-I can't-I mean..." John's train of thought trailed off. He found it very difficult to speak and breathe at the same time.

"You can, John. What's more, you want to. Obviously. You just don't think you should." Sherlock stated this as if John was the most ignorant human being on the face of the planet.

_Well, nothing ever changes so very much_, John thought with mirth and a little bit of anger.

"Stop being an idiot, John and relax."

John laughed a little too wildly at Sherlock's order, but Sherlock ignored him completely.

Sherlock's icy fingers curled around John's waistband and raked downward, taking John's briefs with them. He paused only momentarily to grasp John's thigh muscles on each leg. His fingers dug into John's skin. Sherlock stayed on his knees, inches from John, just staring. _He's studying me, studying my body_, John realized as cold butterflies exploded in his gut.

Sherlock wasted no more time. He took John into his mouth as if it was something he did every day. He swallowed hard around John's flesh and John took one sharp breath after another. John wanted to step back, to make his friend stop this nonsense-it was too much like a dream. But, what Sherlock was doing to him was so much perfect magic. He realized he couldn't have spoken actual words, even if his heart truly wanted to. He could barely think coherently anymore.

John's eyes slowly looked downward. He took in his younger friend: the long, thin muscles of his thighs that were bearing his weight, the bony tops of his shoulder blades, the top of his shining curls and lastly his pink heart-shaped mouth. So many times that mouth of Sherlock's had said the most insulting things and John had wanted to tell him to shut the hell up. On really bad days he'd wanted to literally punch Sherlock right in the mouth. But, watching Sherlock use his mouth now, _on him_...feeling all the heat and pleasurable secrets it had held all this time, John thought what a shame it would be to hurt it or anything about this gorgeous man.

John could stand perfectly still no longer. Sherlock's lips and tongue and teeth and throat were coaxing him to some massive edge. John felt an overwhelming, painful need to ..._jump_...to let go and give in to adrenaline and a feeling of pure primal satisfaction. He moaned deep in his throat and carded his fingers through Sherlock's curls. John let one hand stay at the back of Sherlock's skull, his fingers entwined in Sherlock's hair. John's touch seemed to somehow inflame his friend because Sherlock let out the most gutteral groan John had ever heard in his life.

The vibration of that growl at the back of Sherlock's throat coupled with the way his tongue and teeth pressed and grazed around John's flesh was the final straw. John felt a tingling sensation grow in his belly. The tingling was quickly paired with a heat that spread throughout his entire body with insane intensity. The words _So Fucking Unreal, Unreal, Unreal_, bounced around John's brain as he felt spasm after spasm of pure pleasure wash over him. _Fucking Unreal_.

Sherlock slowly and gently withdrew his mouth from around John, taking with it the fantastic heat. Sherlock flicked his tongue one last time as he broke contact, leaving John with one more massive shudder of satisfaction.

Without realizing it, John's fingers had tightened in Sherlock's hair. John pulled at his friend's curls from the roots and Sherlock let out something that was half-sigh, half-yelp as a distant smile glinted in his eye and danced on his red, glistening mouth. John's leg muscles felt very weak and he began to shake just a bit. He had heard mate's boast about experiences with lovers that left them weak in the knees, but until tonight John had only pretended to know what they were talking about.

With the weakness rapidly spreading to other muscles in his body, John began to slowly shuffle backward, never taking his eyes away from Sherlock. He backed up until his knees hit Sherlock's mattress and he sat down in utter exhaustion. Despite being completely naked and feeling very vulnerable in front of his friend, John sat bolt-upright as was usual for him. He wrestled with what to say to Sherlock, or rather what to do for Sherlock. He had never been in this kind of situation with another man and had no clue. John cleared his throat and tried to speak.

"Sherlock-I-that was..." he trailed off not knowing how to finish. At last, feeling a little embarrassed he finished quickly with "uh-thank you."

Sherlock continued to smile. He hadn't yet moved from his kneeling position and John's eyes flitted up and down the silhouette of the younger man. John could feel the color in his neck and face rise again as his eyes came to rest on Sherlock's abdominal and groin area. _No doubt he's aroused_, John thought. _By me! oh hell_...

John, feeling ridiculously over-exposed started to rise from the bed, only to hear Sherlock speak in barely more than a whisper.

"No, don't John. Don't get up,don't even move. Just sit there and let me look at you."

"What? Sherlock, why?"

"Because I like it, and..." It was Sherlock's turn to have his thoughts die mid-sentence.

John stayed on the bed, sitting and watching his friend intently once again. He wondered how anyone else who may have possibly seen Sherlock Holmes stripped of all his clothes could ever tear their eyes away. The man was so insanely beautiful, like an angel with no wings. He was pale,yes-almost unnaturally so-but, this only made him seem to sparkle in the lamplight. He was all sharp angles and lean, taught muscle. John saw Sherlock's body as an erotic blend of shadows and highlights. Just drinking in the sight of the man was enough to make John excited all over again.

Evidently, the sight of John made Sherlock feel the same way. Sherlock's eyes-dark and gleaming-bored holes into him seemingly everywhere all at once. John could not understand Sherlock's fascination with him, yet he dare not move. Sherlock just stared at John as his breathing got steadily faster and more laboured. Sherlock took in deep breaths through his nose and let them out, raggedly, through his mouth. John watched in stunned fascination, waiting for what would happen next.

Sherlock's hands went to his own thighs and he gripped them, almost like an attempt to steady himself. He bent forward slightly, still gripping his thighs and breathing harshly, never looking away from John's body. Sherlock's shoulders rolled forward slightly, as if he were absorbing a punch to the gut. John started to rise at that and go to Sherlock, but Sherlock stopped him by shaking his head from side-to-side.

"Just let me look, John, please," Sherlock pleaded. He sounded so desperate, John couldn't help but do as he asked.

Sherlock's eyes were fixed permenently on John's abdomen and waist, now slick with sweat. He slowly, slowly raised one hand to his groin. Sherlock's hand had barely touched, yet alone wrapped around his inflamed flesh when he began to shudder violently. Finally, Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the ceiling. Still on his knees, a few feet away from John, wave after wave of shuddering pleasure washed over Sherlock. He moaned one long note of satisfaction that echoed off the walls of the bedroom. Sherlock, at last, began to rock back and forth on his knees, repeating the same thing over and over again.  
"John!"  
"John!"  
"Oh, John!"


	4. Chapter 4

John sat still as a statue on the edge of the bed. Sherlock, remaining on the floor, had his eyes tightly closed. A few minutes ticked by, slowly, as if time had been put on pause. Every few seconds, Sherlock's body would shake: John could see his shoulders tense up, his abdominal muscles flex and his legs quiver. Finally, when Sherlock's chin dropped forward and came to rest on his chest, John knew he'd have to speak first.

"Sherlock, what-er-what just happened?"

Sherlock, although appearing to be drifting off to sleep, replied quickly. "Dreams came true, John."

"Pardon? Sherlock, are you all right?"

"I've dreamt of you, so many times, as you are right now: stripped and vulnerable on my mattress. This was better than any dream though, because it had a satisfactory ending. And, you my friend, are..." Sherlock's spoken thoughts trailed off as he sighed heavily and shook his drooping head from side to side.

John could feel the hot flush of red climbing toward his cheeks again and a fluttering in his chest and throat. "What, Sherlock? What am I?"

Sherlock sluggishly raised his head. His eyes blinked open and stared at John while the left side of his mouth twisted upward in a half-smile. "You are better...you are...much...sexier...in person. Overwhelmingly so, John"

John cocked his head to one side as he did when he disagreed with his flatmate on something. "Sherlock-you-umm-what you did-umm-for me-er-to me, I..." John decided words were still off the table. His mouth couldn't catch up to his mind.

"You enjoyed it." It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact. Sherlock's half-smile bloomed full.

"Yes, Jesus Sherlock, who wouldn't?"

"Oh, I imagine a great many people would not, John." Sherlock shifted his weight and slid into a sitting position, legs tangled up, Indian-style.

John couldn't help but smile at the sight of Sherlock, all knees and elbows and steepled fingertips, sitting naked on the floor. He thought for a moment and then spoke. "I suppose you're right, Sherlock. Most married men certainly wouldn't enjoy head from another man." John chuckled, but the feeling that washed over him was confusion. "Hell, I never imagined I would enjoy that. But, Sherlock, you made me feel...well, if I'm being honest...just a tiny bit mad."

Sherlock let out a one-note laugh and said, "So, I drove you a bit insane, good doctor? I know what you mean. You did the same to me, John."

John stared directly at Sherlock with questioning eyes. "Really, Sherlock? I mean-really? Because, I didn't even do anything. I barely even touched you."

"I've thought about this for so long now, John. I've thought about you and me and what it would be like to get close to you, to be intimate with you. When it actually happened, it was too much."

"What do you mean, too much?"

"I mean it was more exhilirating than I could have ever guessed or dreamed. I was more excited and aroused than I've ever been in my entire life. I-well-I am not-what _the woman _called me..." it was now Sherlock's turn to blush. John wanted to rush to his side and touch his face and tell him there was no need to be embarrassed in front of him, yet he stayed put.

"You mean you're no virgin, Sherlock?"

"Precisely, John. I'm no...virgin...and yet, it's been an awfully long time since I first had sex."

"Since you _first _had sex?"

"Yes, I've only been with one other person and I was a teenager. I wasn't very good at any of it and neither was he."

John wrapped his brain around the words that had just escaped Sherlock's mouth. Once again, Sherlock was surprising him by sharing. Not only had John just learned that Sherlock definitely was not a virgin, he also now knew that his friend had only been with two people in the course of his thirty six years and that both his partners had been men.

"Oh, I see," was the only thing John could think to say.

"No, John, I don't think you do."

Sherlock slid his steepled fingers down from in front of his lips and placed them just under his chin. John recognized this as Sherlock's _explaining pose_. "You touching me-your fingers in my hair, your warm hands on my face and my body, your lips on my lips-it was all so incredible. It was like you'd set me on fire. I could barely control myself, John."

John smiled now, remembering his earlier thoughts about his heat melting Sherlock. "Go on," John said.

"I don't have much experience, sexually, John. Since I was so aroused by your simple touch and..." Sherlock drew in a deep breath, "just the sight of you-your body,I knew that I wouldn't last long. I knew it wouldn't take much for me to...to climax. So, I made you stay on the bed and I took care of myself."

"Okay."

"Also, I knew you didn't have any experience with a man. I was trying to save you from feeling too awkward or embarrassed."

"And, saving yourself from those feelings as well, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked a bit stricken, the blush had faded from his face. "Well, you know John, it isn't very...manly...for a bloke to lose it so quickly; to be so out of control."

At this point John finally got up. He took a few steps, closing the space between Sherlock and himself. John went to his knees directly in front of his friend. He reached out his right hand, cupped it around Sherlock's neck and pulled him forward. With their foreheads touching and their eyes reflecting each other, John smiled warmly.

"Sherlock, the way you were tonight-so turned on and worked up simply because I put my hands on you-"

"And your body, don't forget that part," Sherlock interrupted.

John laughed a little, feeling ridiculous. "All right. Okay. And, because you loved looking at...my body..."

"Obviously."

"That was the most flattering-not to mention erotic and insanely sexy-experience I've ever had."

"You are an enigma, my friend," Sherlock said in a dreamy voice.

"Excuse me? An eni-how so, Sherlock?"

"Most people are so easy to understand, to deduce, to break down. They are dull and transparent."

"Are you trying to say that I'm _excessively_ dull and transparent?"

"What? God no, John! I'm saying I can't figure you out. You are perhaps the one human being who surprises me more often than not. You are a question that I cannot answer, an equation that I cannot solve."

"What makes you say that?"

"I can never predict what your reaction will be to any given situation. Like tonight, for instance. I wish I could have known that you would let me...well, that you would be so open to..." Sherlock struggled to finish. "I wish I could have known that you would enjoy what happened tonight."

"Why, Sherlock? What difference would it have made?"

"If I had known that you would stay with me and that you would _be _with me, I , perhaps, would not have taken the last of my drug stash when I came in this room to get your hat. Also, I wouldn't have phoned Lestrade."

John's head jerked back, breaking contact with Sherlock's. "You wouldn't have-drugs?-_drugs_!-Sherlock?-_Sherlock_!" John's heart was picking up speed at an alarming rate. "I don't understand, Sherlock. Earlier, you told me you didn't have drugs in the flat!"

"Yes, I know. I lied, John. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? How much did you take? What did you take?" John's questions were like rapidly thrown daggers and Sherlock winced at his tone. John waited for a response but Sherlock was silent as the grave.

"What did you say about Greg-er-Lestrade? Sherlock?"

"I called him, John, before you came in here and...he's my sponsor, you see, and I thought I would need someone later. I thought you were going to leave and go home to Molly."

"Greg is your _sponsor_? God, Sherlock, I had no idea. What..."

"No, you wouldn't. It's entirely confidential and Lestrade is a good mate."

John realized that he'd been holding his breath and he let it out in a big gust. He felt deflated. There was no arguing with what Sherlock had just said-Greg Lestrade was a loyal friend. "What did Greg say or do when you phoned him?"

"He said to stay put. He said he'd be over as soon as he could get away from his family. I told him not to hurry, but..."

"Greg is coming over here? To this flat? And, I've been here this entire time behaving as if... Jesus, Sherlock, I'm completely naked. We were-were-together-we-and Lestrade..." John's head was in complete chaos. He looked around Sherlock's bedroom, spying his discarded clothes on the floor. He bounded to his feet and quickly pulled on his boxers.

"Calm down, John."

"Calm down? Really, Sherlock? I can't believe you've let me be so reckless, knowing all the time that Greg could have come any minute. You were on your knees giving me a fucking blowjob, for godssake!" John suddenly realized how loud his voice had become and he pursed his lips together in a pout that screamed _I'm pissed off_.

"Lestrade's not here yet, John. I could give you another fucking blowjob, if you'd like?"

John's eyes went wide. He inhaled and exhaled an enormous amount of air through his nose, trying to calm down. Finally, he picked up Sherlock's trousers. John threw them across to Sherlock and said, "Get dressed, lunatic. _NOW_!"

Sherlock started to stand, trousers in hand. John had just enough time to take in the fact that Sherlock was thoroughly aroused again  
when someone knocked at the front door of 221B Baker Street.

Knock, Knock! "Sherlock?"  
Knock, Knock, Knock! "Sherlock Hoooolmes?"  
Knock, Knock, Knock, Knock! "It's Lestrade, open up!"


	5. Chapter 5

John sat still as a statue on the edge of the bed. Sherlock, remaining on the floor, had his eyes tightly closed. A few minutes ticked by, slowly, as if time had been put on pause. Every few seconds, Sherlock's body would shake: John could see his shoulders tense up, his abdominal muscles flex and his legs quiver. Finally, when Sherlock's chin dropped forward and came to rest on his chest, John knew he'd have to speak first.

"Sherlock, what-er-what just happened?"

Sherlock, although appearing to be drifting off to sleep, replied quickly. "Dreams came true, John."

"Pardon? Sherlock, are you all right?"

"I've dreamt of you, so many times, as you are right now: stripped and vulnerable on my mattress. This was better than any dream though, because it had a satisfactory ending. And, you my friend, are..." Sherlock's spoken thoughts trailed off as he sighed heavily and shook his drooping head from side to side.

John could feel the hot flush of red climbing toward his cheeks again and a fluttering in his chest and throat. "What, Sherlock? What am I?"

Sherlock sluggishly raised his head. His eyes blinked open and stared at John while the left side of his mouth twisted upward in a half-smile. "You are better...you are...much...sexier...in person. Overwhelmingly so, John"

John cocked his head to one side as he did when he disagreed with his flatmate on something. "Sherlock-you-umm-what you did-umm-for me-er-to me, I..." John decided words were still off the table. His mouth couldn't catch up to his mind.

"You enjoyed it." It wasn't a question, just a statement of fact. Sherlock's half-smile bloomed full.

"Yes, Jesus Sherlock, who wouldn't?"

"Oh, I imagine a great many people would not, John." Sherlock shifted his weight and slid into a sitting position, legs tangled up, Indian-style.

John couldn't help but smile at the sight of Sherlock, all knees and elbows and steepled fingertips, sitting naked on the floor. He thought for a moment and then spoke. "I suppose you're right, Sherlock. Most married men certainly wouldn't enjoy head from another man." John chuckled, but the feeling that washed over him was confusion. "Hell, I never imagined I would enjoy that. But, Sherlock, you made me feel...well, if I'm being honest...just a tiny bit mad."

Sherlock let out a one-note laugh and said, "So, I drove you a bit insane, good doctor? I know what you mean. You did the same to me, John."

John stared directly at Sherlock with questioning eyes. "Really, Sherlock? I mean-really? Because, I didn't even do much. I barely even touched you."

"I've thought about this for so long now, John. I've thought about you and me and what it would be like to get close to you, to be intimate with you. When it actually happened, it was too much."

"What do you mean, too much?"

"I mean it was more exhilirating than I could have ever guessed or dreamed. I was more excited and aroused than I've ever been in my entire life. I-well-I am not-what _The Woman_ called me..." it was now Sherlock's turn to blush. John wanted to rush to his side and touch his face and tell him there was no need to be embarrassed in front of him, yet he stayed put.

"You mean you're no virgin, Sherlock?"

"Precisely, John. I'm no...virgin...and yet, it's been an awfully long time since I first had sex."

"Since you _first _had sex?"

"Yes, I've only been with one other person and I was a teenager. I wasn't very good at anything and neither was he."

John wrapped his brain around the words that had just escaped Sherlock's mouth. Once again, Sherlock was surprising him by sharing. Not only had John just learned that Sherlock was _not_ a virgin, he also now knew that his friend had only been with _two_ people in the course of his thirty six years and that _both_ his partners had been men.

"Oh, I see," was the only thing John could think to say.

"No, John, I don't think you do."

Sherlock slid his steepled fingers down from in front of his lips and placed them just under his chin. John recognized this as Sherlock's explaining pose. "You touching me-your fingers in my hair, your warm hands on my face and my body, your lips on my lips-it was all so incredible. It was like you'd set me on fire. I could barely control myself, John."

John smiled now, remembering his earlier thoughts about his heat melting Sherlock. "Go on," he said.

"I don't have much experience, sexually, John. Since I was so aroused by your simple touch and..." Sherlock drew in a deep breath, "just the sight of you-your body,I knew that I wouldn't last long. I knew it wouldn't take much for me to...to climax. So, I made you stay on the bed and I took care of myself."

"Okay."

"Also, I knew you didn't have any experience with a man. I was trying to save you from feeling too awkward or embarrassed."

"And, saving yourself from those feelings as well, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked a bit stricken, the blush had faded from his face. "Well, you know John, it isn't very...manly...for a bloke to lose it so quickly; to be so out of control."

At this point John finally got up. He took a few steps, closing the space between Sherlock and himself. John went to his knees directly in front of his friend. He reached out his right hand, cupped it around Sherlock's neck and pulled him forward. With their foreheads touching and their eyes reflecting each other, John smiled warmly

.  
"Sherlock, the way you were tonight-so turned on and worked up simply because I put my hands on you-"

"And your body, don't forget that part," Sherlock interrupted.

John laughed a little, feeling ridiculous. "All right. Okay. And, because you loved looking at...my body..."

"Obviously."

"That was the most flattering-not to mention erotic and insanely sexy-experience I've ever had."

"You are an enigma, my friend," Sherlock said in a dreamy voice.

"Excuse me? An eni-how so, Sherlock?"

"Most people are so easy to understand, to deduce, to break down. They are dull and transparent."

"Are you trying to say that I'm _excessively_ dull and transparent?"

"What? God no, John! I'm saying I can't figure you out. You are perhaps the one human being who surprises me more often than not. You are a question that I cannot answer, an equation that I cannot solve."

"What makes you say that?"

"I can never predict what your reaction will be to any given situation. Like tonight, for instance. I wish I could have known that you would let me...well, that you would be so open to..." Sherlock struggled to finish. "I wish I could have known that you would enjoy what happened tonight."

"Why, Sherlock? What difference would it have made?"

"If I had known that you would stay with me and that you would _be _with me, I , perhaps, would not have taken the last of my drug stash when I came in this room to get your hat. Also, I wouldn't have phoned Lestrade."

John's head jerked back, breaking contact with Sherlock's. "You wouldn't have-drugs?-drugs!-Sherlock?-Sherlock!" John's heart was picking up speed at an alarming rate. "I don't understand. Earlier, you told me you didn't have drugs in the flat!"

"Yes, I know. I lied, John. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry? How much did you take? What did you take?" John's questions were like rapidly thrown daggers and Sherlock winced at his tone. John waited for a response yet Sherlock was silent as the grave.

"What did you say about Greg-er-Lestrade? Sherlock?"

"I called him, John, before you came in here and...he's my sponsor, you see and I thought I would need someone later. I thought you were going to leave and go home to Molly."

"Greg is your sponsor? God, Sherlock, I had no idea. What..."

"No, you wouldn't. It's entirely confidential and Lestrade is a good mate."

John realized that he'd been holding his breath and he let it out in a big gust. He felt deflated. There was no arguing with what Sherlock had just said-Greg Lestrade was a loyal friend. "What did Greg say or do when you phoned him?"

"He said to stay put. He said he'd be over as soon as he could get away from his family. I told him not to hurry, but..."

"Greg is coming over here? To this flat? And, I've been here this entire time behaving as if... Jesus, Sherlock, I'm completely naked. We were-were-together-we-and Lestrade..." John's head was in complete chaos. He looked around Sherlock's bedroom, spying his discarded clothes on the floor. He bounded to his feet and quickly pulled on his boxers.

"Calm down, John."

"Calm down? Really, Sherlock? I can't believe you've let me be so reckless, knowing all the time that Greg could have come any minute. You were on your knees giving me a fucking blowjob, for godssake!" John suddenly realized how loud his voice had become and he pursed his lips together in a pout that screamed '_I'm pissed off_.'

"Lestrade's not here yet, John. I could give you another fucking blowjob, if you'd like?"

John's eyes went wide. He inhaled and exhaled an enormous amount of air through his nose, trying to calm down. Finally, he picked up Sherlock's trousers. John threw them across to Sherlock and said, "Get dressed, lunatic. _Now_!"

Sherlock started to stand, trousers in hand. John had just enough time to take in the fact that Sherlock was thoroughly aroused again  
when someone knocked at the front door of 221B Baker Street.  
Knock, Knock! "Sherlock?"  
Knock, Knock, Knock! "Sherlock Hoooolmes?"  
Knock, Knock, Knock, Knock! "It's Lestrade, open up!"

John went to dressing like a man on a life-or-death mission. By the time Detective Inspector Lestrade knocked again and yelled "open sesame!" John was fastening the last button on his shirt. He started to open the door and quiet Lestrade, but stopped himself. John realized he was very warm, sweating in fact, and he ran one sleeve of his shirt across his forehead. Just then Sherlock stepped into the main room. The two friends locked eyes for a moment. Sherlock seemed to be in no hurry to answer the door.

"Sherlock, you're in your dressing gown," John pointed out as he took in Sherlock's very dishevelled appearance.

"Yes, John, I know," Sherlock answered with quite a wicked grin on his flushed face.

"Aren't you going to dress for Lestrade?"

"Why should I? I am known to lounge in my dressing gowns."

"Yes, but you're-er-I mean-you don't have on anything underneath."

"I don't recall any objections about that earlier, doctor."

John blushed and raised a hand to smooth his sandy hair. "Your hair's a mess as well."

"I seem to remember you helping to contribute to the tangles," Sherlock said as he ran long fingers through his curls like a comb.

John could only stand and gape at Sherlock and his complete lack of regard as to how this might look to an outsider. Thank God he'd managed to put his clothes back on-well, most of them, anyway.

"Just answer the door before he knocks it down, Sherlock."

For once, Sherlock did as asked without objection. He crossed the space between himself and the door on his long legs, opened the door wide and leaned on its edge. Greg Lestrade stood just outside, bundled up in his winter coat, with a cup of coffee in each hand.  
The Detective Inspector didn't wait to be asked inside. Without taking any particular notice of Sherlock and without even glancing in John Watson's direction, he ducked inside.


	6. Chapter 6

Once inside the flat, Greg Lestrade did take in his surroundings. He noticed Sherlock in his blue dressing gown, hair curling out like mini-devil horns everywhere, one knee just resting on the arm of the leather chair that John usually occupied. It wasn't until he began to unburden himself of his winter outerwear that he noticed John who was standing stiff and straight by the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, chin held high at a slight angle. _Strange blush to his neck and cheeks? Nah... Still...a bit strange_.

After placing his scarf on the coatrack and shaking the snow from his salt and pepper hair, Lestrade spoke as he set the coffee down on a side table.

"Hello, John, old mate. Didn't know you'd be here. Sherlock called and said you were on your way home."

John did that pouty thing with his tightly pursed lips as his eyes slid to the floor. "Sherlock didn't tell me you were coming either, Greg. I was just about to leave, really. It's just that Sherlock seems to be high now and...and...I don't..." his explanation faltered and he gave up with a sigh. John then buttoned the top button on his shirt as he swung around to face the fireplace.

"Well, yes, Sherlock did happen to mention about his slip-up on the phone." Lestrade turned from John to Sherlock, squinting his eyes at the consulting detective and giving a small, stern shake of his head. "I'm just chuffed you had enough sense to call me, to reach out. Usually, I only hear tales of how you _meant_ to call me. You know, _after_ the fact...or should I say, after the _high_?"

Sherlock just stood where he was with a warm smile on his face. He shrugged his shoulders at Lestrade and said, "I truly did believe John would be leaving and I didn't want to be alone."

John blushed again and Lestrade answered in feigned astonishment, "That's strange, mate. Times must be hard when the great Sherlock "Leave- me- alone" Holmes wants company."

Sherlock's smile dimmed a bit at that, his eyes grew a bit more gray and he shook his head in the affirmative.

"Well, glad I could oblige you, Sherlock," Lestrade said firmly. He looked back at John then, noticing the sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. He couldn't help asking, "John, are you alright? You seem a bit...feverish."

Before John could answer, Sherlock blurted out an answer that mortified John.

"John will be fine. He just needs some air. He's a bit tired , not to mention embarrassed that you showed up when you did, Lestrade. He barely had time to buckle his belt correctly."

A sound escaped John's throat that sounded like a wounded animal trying his best to crawl away and die. He put his forehead in the palm of his hand and whispered "Sherlock, Jesus!"

Sherlock chuckled as he threw himself into the armchair he'd been leaning on. He steepled his fingers under his chin and began to speak again. "John, calm down. You and me, together, it's nothing Lestrade can't handle. He's very good at keeping secrets and besides I think he's been up to a bit of the same. Am I wrong, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade chewed on his lip and his brow furrowed as he glared at Sherlock.

"I don't know what you're talking about. As far as you and John are concerned, it doesn't matter to me what the hell you two get up to. If you ask me it's about damn time."

Sherlock laughed again, "Yes, I knew you'd say that concerning the good doctor and myself. You're not a dull-witted man, Lestrade. But, for the sake of John's embarrassment you could confess to your own infidelities."

John sighed and curled both hands at his sides into fists. His voice came out as a shout, "Shut up, you lunatic! Your drug-addled nonsensical babble is embarrassing us all. If Greg says he was with his family, I believe him and he doesn't owe any explanation. It's none of _my_ business!"

Sherlock took on a look of injury.

"I was only trying to point out that the world will not end because of what we did, John. Even Lestrade, pillar of London that he is, has been unfaithful to his wife. In fact, he came from some tryst just now. I know because there are two distinct aromas that surround him. Can't you smell them? One I know to be Lestrade's aftershave lotion. I've smelled it enough around the station, God knows. The other however is distinctly different, more woodsy and strong. And, unless his wife has a special habit of wearing men's cologne instead of ladies' perfume..."

"That's quite _enough_, Sherlock. I didn't have to show up, you know." Greg Lestrade looked a little green. John felt sorry for him.  
John felt embarrassed for the both of them.  
John felt...curious.

John was beginning to think that Sherlock was going to prattle on all night long about sexual escapades. That did not happen however, as the drugs he'd taken earlier in the night began to take a stronger hold upon his body. Sherlock's eyelids began to droop, his chin as well. Before long, as John and Greg looked on, Sherlock nodded out of reality.

John drew a deep breath and took a few steps toward Lestrade. He kept his voice a loud whisper and asked, "Want to step into the kitchen, Greg?"  
Lestrade nodded and followed John.


	7. Chapter 7

John couldn't help but feel relieved to have escaped the hot, oppressive air of the sitting room. He vaguely wondered why he had

added all those logs to the fire. Good God he was sweltering! There had been too much physical contact, of which he wasn't at all accustomed,

inside 221B tonight; too much sweat, heartbeat and friction. John suddenly felt lightheaded and reached out for the kitchen chair. It helped to

steady him physically and mentally.

"Listen, Greg, I'm sorry about all that in there. Sherlock, I mean. He had no right to say any of that stuff regarding your personal life. I

am bloody well embarrassed." John knew the minute the words left his lips that the apology was inadequate. He felt as if he should say

something more insightful and supportive. _Damn Sherlock for putting him in the position of having to make excuses and apologize for him!_ It

was infuriating!

Greg still looked a bit sick. He was very pale and John noticed he had a sheen of clammy anxiety sweat on his brow. Greg let out a

half-hearted bark of a laugh and said, "It's not your fault, mate. You have no blame in any of it. In fact, I feel the same as you. I know that

Sherlock's tongue can cut quick and deep and I'm sorry that he...well, ...ratted the two of you out."

"Yes, well, I don't know why I was surprised that he blurted out such personal information. It's _so_ Sherlock, isn't it? Whether he's high

or not, he loves the dramatic...er...shock value."

"True, very true, John. I hope you don't feel uncomfortable around me now. I mean, I've always known...er...felt the tension between

you and him. It's sort of hard to miss if you spend any time around the two of you at all. I'm not surprised that you finally gave into those feelings.

I can understand it completely."

John raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Is it really that obvious?_ Shit_!"

"Like I said it is obvious to me, but I do know the two of you quite well."

"Yes, I suppose you do. I'm not sure I know you as well as I thought I did. Greg, you've never told me that you were anyone's sponsor! I

never knew you had an addiction at all. I...well...we...we've had drinks together a number of times. Remember, all those nights after Sherlock's

dea-...er...fall? You kept me company so many days and nights. Still, I never even guessed."

Lestrade raked his fingers through his glorious silver hair and sighed. John could tell he was completely uncomfortable and a little

nervous, too.

"Greg?"

"John, you know there are other types of addiction that are unrelated to drugs and alcohol."

"I, uh, well...that never crossed my mind, Greg." John stood enveloped in silence and thought. Greg's admittance bounced around in

his head. Like a lightning bolt, the meaning of what Greg was trying to say hit John. He suddenly felt out of his depths and , of course, wildly

embarrassed. John pushed the embarrassment down though. He shouldn't feel this way about issues such as this. He was a doctor of medicine for

God's sake! He knew all about the human body, human urges, and some of the human psyche. John gathered his courage and confidence and

asked, "You mean addiction of a sexual nature don't you, Greg?"

Lestrade's eyes slid to the tile floor of the kitchen and it was his turn to blush. He sighed heavily and admitted it. "Yes, John, that's

exactly what I'm trying to say without actually saying it." Greg let out his nervous one-note laugh again.

"Okay, well, I'm glad that we got that out of the way. I mean, I'm happy to know that you feel comfortable enough with me to be able

to share this information about yourself." John had unconsciously clasped both hands behind his back and taken on the air of 'doctor-in-

charge."

"It's not something I'm proud of and I don't share it with everyone. In fact, you're the only person I've actually told, besides my wife.

Sherlock, of course, deduced it long ago. And, it didn't help at all that I once drunkenly hit on him." Lestrade sat down hard in a chair opposite

John.

"You tried to have sex with Sherlock?"

"Well, it was in a moment of weakness, or drunkeness. Not one of my prouder moments. Sherlock's been great about it though. He's

never mentioned the incident since it happened save to let me know that everything is all right between us. Sometimes, Sherlock Holmes can be a great

man. I think Sherlock knows that...well...that..." Greg trailed off and rested his forehead on his arm which was propped on the kitchen table.

"Greg? It's okay. I know it has to be a difficult thing to talk about, but, you can confide in me if you want. You know I'm a man of great

integrity." John gave a playful smirk, although Lestrade couldn't see it. "I would never tell anything you confided to me. That's a promise."

"I think Sherlock knows that I have on-and-off trysts with his brother." With that admission, Lestrade groaned and lifted his head. He

faced John with a look of pure shame. John realized that this addiction of Lestrade's was eating him up inside.

Even though John felt so much sympathy for Lestrade's situation he couldn't help but feel and sound incredulous when he said,

"Mycroft Holmes?! You sleep with Mycroft Holmes?"

"Every once in a while, yes. It's an addiction. He's not the only one though."

John regained his composure and inquired whether Lestrade was seeking professional help for this sexual addiction.

"I have in the past, yes. But, John, it is so difficult for me. I've done some terrible things that have deeply hurt my family and I don't

know if it's fixable. Some of the things I've done are completely unforgiveable."

"I seriously doubt that. Almost nothing is completely unforgiveable, Greg. If your wife can't find it in her heart to forgive, then you should

at least work on forgiving yourself. I know the number to a pretty fantastic therapist if you'd like it.

"Thank you, John. I appreciate your advice and your concern. Maybe one day I will get that number."

"Okay, just let me know, mate. I'm happy to help any way that I'm able."

John, seeing that the conversation and soul purging was at an abrupt end, suggested they check on Sherlock. The two friends walked

back into the sitting room. They found Sherlock exactly as they'd left him; he was dozing in the armchair, head lolled back on the cushions, eyes

closed ,mouth slightly parted. Looking at the lean figure of his best friend John's stomach fluttered sickeningly. He walked up to the side of the

chair and observed Sherlock's breathing. John deduced that Sherlock was out cold, at least for the moment. John reached out his hand and

gingerly, tenderly caressed a wild curl. He twisted it around his index finger; his hand slowly descended, tracing the line of Sherlocks jaw and the

sharp angle of his chin.

Sherlock's eyes opened wearily and he smiled up at John. John tried to remind himself that he was furious with the younger man for all

that he'd done tonight...all the deception. But, it was no use. John smiled back; he couldn't help himself.

"You need to let me check your breathing, Sherlock. Pulse, too."

"Hmmm hmmm, go 'head," Sherlock slurred.

John knelt down on one knee and placed his right palm on Sherlock's chest. The rise and fall was slow, but not too slow as to be

dangerous. "Right-o," John quipped. Next, John took Sherlock's arm and slowly turned it over. He placed the first two fingers of his right hand over Sherlock's wrist and counted heartbeats. The beats were strong, albeit a bit sluggish. John could have kept his fingertips on Sherlock's wrist for thirty seconds only and then multiplied that number by two to obtain heartrate. As a doctor, it was his usual method. He mostly preferred the quickest way of

obtaining results. But, as his fingertips rested on Sherlock's thin wrist he found it surprisingly difficult to break the contact. John realized that he

wanted nothing more than to keep touching this beautiful, ethereal man. _My brilliant madman_. Of course, it didn't help one little bit that Sherlock had extended his long fingers up the inside of John's arm and was slowly caressing the sensitive skin there.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Up and down.

John felt a rush of blood all through his body, and knowing what would happen next-physically-he abruptly stood and addressed the half-conscious Sherlock.

"You should lie down and try and get some rest. We'll figure all of this bloody mess out in the morning. Let me help you to your room."

" 'kay," was all Sherlock managed.

John grasped Sherlock under one arm and helped him stand up from the chair. John guided the arm around his own neck and then took Sherlock firmly around the waist. _So much skin and bones_! That got John to thinking of earlier that night when he'd stared, mesmerized by the beauty of the angles of Sherlock's naked body. He made himself force the intrusive thoughts from his head.

As they reached Sherlock's bed John said, "Here we are, mate. Time to rest. Just lie down here and relax."

Sherlock began to slink out of his dressing gown. Underneath he was completely naked. John tried his best to overt his eyes from the amazingly erotic parts of the man's body. John pulled the blankets on Sherlock's bed down, in an inviting fashion. Sherlock plopped down on the mattress, slipped his long legs under the covers and pulled them up over his waist. John rested his fingertips on Sherlock's tight stomach and patted it, saying, "Comfy, Sherlock?"

"Yes, John, thank you. You are the one true friend in my life and I love you."

"You...? uh, I ...er...thanks, Sherlock. You have always been my greatest friend and ally, too. No matter how much you behave like an absolute dick, nothing will ever change that. John smiled again. Sherlock didn't see it, though. He was too busy staring at John's hand which still rested on his stomach. Without warning, Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and pulled him violently down. John's shoes skidded on the hardwood floor and he landed hard on both knees.

"Sherlock-what are you doing?"

" I want a goodnight kiss, John. I need it. I need you. No joke."

John knew it was most likely the drugs talking instead of his logical, show-no-emotion friend, but still...

"Sherlock, I don't think-"

"Shhhh, don't talk so much,my dear Watson. Just come here. Please."

John glanced behind him. Lestrade must still be in the sitting room; he was nowhere to be seen. So, without overthinking anything, John leaned over. He rested his arms on Sherlock's bed and then reached out again for Sherlock curls. Something about those raven locks entranced him. He raked his fingers to the back of Sherlock's head and grabbed a handful of curls at the base of the skull. They met each other halfway and locked lips. _Electric_. _Pure and simple electricity._

A few minutes later, after Sherlock had dozed off and John was sure that his respirations were on the safe side and would be for the rest of the night, he walked back through Sherlock's bedroom door and into the sitting room. Lestrade had taken up residence on the old sofa. He was tapping his foot nervously.

"Greg, Sherlock's asleep now. I'm sure he'll be all right until the morning. I need to get home or Molly will worry. I didn't let her know I was going out." A wave of sudden guilt swept over John.

"That's quite all right, John. I don't need to be home anytime soon. The wife would more than likely prefer that I stay out for a while. Besides, it's the role of a sponsor to be here to support their friends through tough times. We'll be fine. I promise. You go on ahead home."

"Yeah, okay, thanks Greg."

"You're welcome. It's no problem."

"Maybe we can talk more tomorrow about...things. If you'd like to that is."

"Maybe. Thanks. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Greg. Call me on my mobile if you need anything. You know I'll come anytime."

Greg Lestrade smiled a knowing smile that made John feel as transparent as a ghost. "Yes, John, I know."

Without another word, John pulled his cap on his head, buttoned his coat and walked outside. He was prepared to brave the winter weather outside...not to mention what possibly awaited him at home.


End file.
